


It doesn't mean anything if we don't touch.

by LennyFace



Series: The Florentine Downfall [2]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, Emotional Constipation, M/M, Multi, This Might Not Be The Kind Of Threesome You Expected, Threesome - M/M/M, Will They Ever Drink Their Damn Coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7513615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LennyFace/pseuds/LennyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nimura."<br/>"It's a win-win situation."<br/>"Nimura, stop."<br/>Furuta's hands are behind Arima's neck.<br/>"Are you sure?"<br/>"He's right there." He says, and Sasaki realizes he's talking about him, that Furuta's turned his head and is looking at him watching them.<br/>"Oh my, when we're talking about him, that's what I call a day worth living." He's not moved one bit except for his head. "Would you like joining us for today's debrief, boss?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	It doesn't mean anything if we don't touch.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said last night that I had a rough draft for some Arima/Sasaki/Furuta? Well, here goes.
> 
> Thank you Bettu for waking up to my NSFW texts, bearing and correcting it all. 
> 
> This is to be taken as a bonus, not an actual part of the fic but as something that could've happened.
> 
> This is to be read after "Dying in your sheets, trying to start a revolution, maybe could’ve been the best way for me to end.", and it's set earlier on, in the afternoon Sasaki and Furuta worked on the Tsukiyama Extermination's paperwork.
> 
> If you want the chief's advise on what to listen to while reading this:  
> 1\. For some lascive ambiance: You've Seen The Butcher // Deftones  
> 2\. For some Hips-Moving-To-The-Rythm-Of-This-Beat: Hellifornia // Gesaffelstein or Moan // Trentemoller
> 
> As always, please, don't hesitate dropping a little thing, it really makes my days.  
> If you want to contact me - it'd be my pleasure - just look at the links in the endnotes

        The operation’s paperwork is tucked under one of his arms, hands taken by fuming cups, mind preoccupied with how the next days are going to unfold, when he turns around the corner and hears a heated argument coming from his office.

 

"What the fuck are you keeping still for?"

  
        Furuta's voice is low, emphasizing his discourse. "We've not all been trained for that you know, and you're both driving me mad."  
  
        Sasaki can read the tension, the resentment, but he can't really read the situation. He bends forward and slips his head just enough to see who he's talking to.  
  
"It must be hard to bear all these sensations." It's Arima, seemingly used by now to sitting on desks. Furuta hovers in front of him, mere centimeters apart.

  
"You can't even start fathoming how much."  
  
The other man stays silent, slowly blinking, the expression makes Sasaki's heart go wild; he's afraid of that face.

  
"What is your point?"

  
"This is stupid, Kishō, are you intending on keeping these feelings to yourself until one of you dies? Are you even thinking about spitting it out?" Furuta's jaw is clenched, eyes hard on the other as Arima chews lightly on the side of his cheek, wondering and in control.

  
"That's none of your business."

  
"It becomes mine when I feel like I'm being fucked by you two every time I stand in the same damn room as you do! I'm no toy!"  
  
        Arima leans forward, his breath tepid against Furuta's cheeks.

  
"Aren't you?" Sasaki can see the edge of a smile forming itself. "We both are, and you know it. What do you propose, then? I go rampage like you and satisfy every suppressed desire I've had since I was a kid? I open the doors and let all of this flood me? I bring myself to write pages and pages on my will even though I have barely done anything except for killing all my life?" Sasaki's never seen him like that, he looks composed, but there is an edge to his voice he’s never had.

  
"Yes." The answer is immediate.

  
"You know I don't work like that."

  
        Furuta takes the last step keeping them apart, puts a knee on the desk, body almost flush to his.

  
"And I also know how to make some of it work a little, you've already let me sometimes before."

  
"Nimura."

  
"It's a win-win situation."

  
"Nimura, stop."

  
        Furuta's hands are behind Arima's neck.

  
"Are you sure?"

  
"He's right there." He says, and Sasaki realizes he's talking about him, that Furuta's turned his head and is looking at him watching them.

  
"Oh my, when we're talking about him; that's what I call a day worth living." He's not moved one bit except for his head. "Would you like joining us for today's debrief, boss?"

 

        The incongruity of it all freezes him on the spot, mouth slightly open, coffees starting to burn his palms. Does he really expect him to come in?

 

“I should leave.” Arima quietly mutters, sliding the hand he has used to support his body on the desk until Furuta stops him dead in his track, caging his wrist between assured fingers.

 

“Don’t spoil the fun.” Voice low, there is no possibility of arguing left by his tone. Arima’s eyes swiftly slide to his protégé before coming back to Furuta’s dangerous smile. “Sasaki? Please have a sit, we’re gonna have our hands full today, so let’s start quickly.”

 

        He crosses the few strides separating him from the armchair facing them; maybe, if he keeps still enough, they will forget about him and the whole situation will flatten out. Nimura doesn’t seem to share his point of view though, closely listening to his motions while smirking at Arima who himself looks like a deer caught in headlights during night-time.

 

        Sasaki obediently sits and doesn’t even try pretending he’s not prying on them.

 

        Lithe fingers slide across Arima’s arms, awakening discreet sounds of cloth being wrinkled as they move up to his collar. The white-haired man is looking at Haise, jaw tight and face closed; in control.

 

“This,” Furuta has turned his head just the slightest, letting Sasaki only see his profile, most of his face hidden by his hair, except for his lips and eyelashes, slowly moving. “Is a rare exhibit you do not want to miss.”

 

        His tie falls to the ground and the boy’s throat gets dry; he doesn’t know if it’s going too slowly or if he’s morbidly impatient. The stillness of the scene gives him a sense of unreality, everything drawn to Furuta’s smirk and the rhythmical way he deftly unbuttons the other’s shirt.

 

        Haise doesn’t know what to do with his own hands, moist palms uneasily fidgeting over his thighs, as his associate abandons his task to focus on the skin that has been exposed.

 

        Arima’s skin is framed by his crisp shirt-tails, taut lines, pure and unscarred virgin territory claimed by Furuta’s mouth conquering every given expanse.

 

        Coffees left abandoned on the small table, he can’t tear his eyes off the sight he’s given. He feels like prying, witnessing a play he never bought a ticket for; and yet his body is cleaved to his seat, nerves tingling, nape shivering.

 

        His breath gets cut short when Furuta’s digits lock around Arima’s nipples and sharply pinch, a low groan escaping from the other, his expression one of crumbling control: brows furrowed, eyes ajar and mouth slightly open.

 

        He has to move on his armchair, his own shirt damp from the tension building inside of his self, as Furuta slowly walks backwards, towards him, leading him by his firm grip. The older man looks composed again, if not for his chest’s quick rise and fall, the crease he’s left between his lips and the faint blush highlighting his cheekbones.

 

        If Haise thought he was managing well so far, he should have kept it for himself and prayed instead of thinking he could get through this moment. He should have understood where Furuta was going: his lap.

 

        He let himself swiftly fall on it, nails scraping Arima’s chest skin lower and lower until they hit the hem of his trousers, thumbs getting under his belt in an instant.

 

        Furuta’s pressed against him, ass cheeks covering the bulge he has been trying to ignore for the past minutes, engulfing it in a heat that fogs his mind even more. His hands have freed the other’s pants and Haise finds himself unable to look elsewhere as he drops kisses over Arima’s stressed boxers.

 

        He doesn’t dare lifting his eyes up after he has to wet his lips.

 

        Furuta’s smile is long gone, too focused on his task to care about anything else. He doesn’t even try pretending it’s anything else than getting his pleasure out of this situation when he finally gets rid of the last piece of cloth that separated him from his delicacy.

 

        Haise tries to keep as still as possible; if he starts squirming, he’s done for. He has spent the past months alone, preoccupied by the children; the only company he had at night being the silent rustle of his sheets against his body, his own fantasies about his mentor, every damn word Furuta slips to him in dark corners, faint whispers against his neck as they get out at night, and his own hands in his cold room.

 

        He doesn’t even have the possibility to divert his thoughts from anything else other than the situation he’s currently in as Arima’s hands tangle in Furuta’s hair until they have grasped them firmly, pulling out a pleased whimper from the man and a hip thrust that finally prompts Haise out of his stupor, his own hands circling his waist to try getting a hold on its movement.

 

        He finally understand the meaning of the butterfly effect when Nimura leans down, a hand on the squad leader’s hip, the other bent behind him, thumb anchored to his superior’s pelvis. His tongue traces painfully slowly the shape of his groin, body trembling against Sasaki’s, as Arima’s grip only gets tighter.

 

        Furuta hums, a small smile playing on his traits, looking like a devoted pupil as he takes him in his mouth and lifts his eyes up. Sasaki follows the motion, only to see that Arima isn’t looking back at him but at Haise himself. Locking gazes, he gets startled when he feels Furuta starting to suck him off, hips carrying in rhythm, back and forth, each passage building a pressure he’s not sure he can withstand for a very long time.

 

        Arima hasn’t moved one bit, face blank apart from the barely noticeable creases that have appeared in the corners of his eyes and brows. Haise wants to kiss him. He wishes he would be in Furuta’s spot, feeling, tasting, being overwhelmed by the man that keeps him up at nights in morbid fantasies.

 

        Maybe - only maybe - if they don’t touch, it will mean nothing; this instant will be smoothed out by Furuta acting as a wall between them and his heart won’t unfold right in front of the other man. He’s wearing it on his sleeve as he has quietly started whimpering to his associate’s treatment; and he can feel Arima’s scrutiny invade him, blend with the rising tension, the knot choking him.

 

        He is fully clothed, doesn’t have any spare change; Furuta knows it and grinds with even more dedication, the sound of his groans strangely muffled by the cock in his throat.

 

        He can’t help it, it’s starting to feel too much; he puts aside his will and lets his hips echo with the other’s, leaning against his back and moving a hand to untie his collar. His whimpers have turned into soft groans he gags on trying to silence them. He blindly moves, unable to tear off his eyes from Arima’s who has started slowly jerking, the pressure of his thrusts bringing tears to Furuta’s eyes, making his treatment even more erratic.

 

        He’s gaping now, brows furrowing more and more, breath shallow as he increases his speed. Haise bites Furuta’s neck over and over, sucking to leave traces, picturing it’s Arima’s neck under his mouth.

 

        He wishes he would come over him.

        His entire being wants to beg Arima to love him, to take him now and make him forget who he is.

 

        He moves his hands, one on the young inspector’s hips, the other tightly gripping his dick, and then, he lets go: he grinds like he would own and screw him, groaning and moaning against his ear, body no longer his. He tilts his neck, closing his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again, he suffocates on his own whine, the sound he makes filling the room and hitting Arima like a thunderbolt; he comes on himself, dirties the composure he’s been trying to maintain for so long now.

 

        The reaper’s hands suddenly move, thumbs gripping at Furuta’s temples as he fucks his mouth. His mask breaks and there he is, teeth clenched, looking like he’s about to cry; his shoulders close in. He shudders and then, he delivers: his whole body springs out and Furuta’s whimpering mouth gets filled.

 

        He moves his hand to wipe what has spilled out but Sasaki grabs his wrist, tucks it aside, and cleans it for him.

 

        If he can’t kiss him, if he can’t be possessed by this man, he will take what has been given to him. He smiles at Arima through barely opened eyes and takes his coated thumb in his mouth.

 

        Arima bites his lip.

 

        They didn’t touch.

 

        It didn’t mean anything.

 

        Furuta gets up, silently combing his hair, arranging his shirt, and then he smiles at them.

 

“Well, this has been a very interesting reunion. Arima, thank you for your input.”

 

        Arima looks up from the belt he’s buckling, snapped out of his thoughts. He sighs and doesn’t bother replying.

 

“Boss, do you mind grabbing us hot cups? I’m going to start skimming through the files and my throat feels a little...sore.” He says it, innocently, before thanking him and patting him on the shoulder as if it never happened, and it’s maybe better like that.

  


**Author's Note:**

> See you in hell.
> 
> Regular Twitter: @putaindebite  
> Animanga Twitter: @sinsiree  
> Tumblr: http://vroumlecanardlaque.tumblr.com/


End file.
